My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
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In pre-war Paris
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Smuggling bombs for the underground.
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And she met my father
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At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
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He was disguised as a Russian cadet
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in the employ of the Axis.
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And there in the half-light
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Of the provincial midnight
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To a lone concertina
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They drank in cantinas
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And toasted to Edith Piaf
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And the fall of the Reich.
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My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
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And left for the cattle
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But later was found by a communist
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Who'd deserted his ranks
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To follow his dream
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To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
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I get letters sometimes.
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They bought a plantation
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She weeds the tobacco
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He offends the nation
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And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear."
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"Sincerely, your sister."
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So my parents had me
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To the disgust of the prostitutes
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On a bed in a brothel.
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Surprisingly raised with tender care
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'Til the money got tight
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And they bet me away
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To a blind brigadier in a game
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Of high stakes canasta.
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But he made me a sailor
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On his brigadier ship fleet.
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I know every yardarm
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From main mast to jib sheet.
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But sometimes I long to be landlocked
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And to work in a bakery.
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My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist
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| The Decemberists |
